


Falcons

by Pi (Rhea)



Category: Smallville
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-23
Updated: 2011-11-23
Packaged: 2017-10-26 11:17:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/282415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhea/pseuds/Pi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clark thinks about being an alien and alien sexuality. Rather CLexy and all my random thoughts on possibilities for alien difference. And I know positively nothing about falcons, other than that they mate for life (some of them). I know way more about orcas, but the metaphor wasn’t right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Falcons

You are not thinking about his ass. That wouldn’t be normal. You are a good boy in Bible belt Kansas, and even when you don’t dream in English you know what that means. So you do your chores and homework. You stare out at the sky and think about where you came from. Not the birds and the bees or your awkward blushing father when he took you aside, large hands comforting on your shoulders, and explained why you had to be careful, like explaining why you still couldn’t drive the truck or why you couldn’t play ball though he’d been the quarter back in his glory days. No you’re the exception to the stork myth. You weren’t born, you arrived, were the dropped off baby on the doorstep in a big metal basket. Maybe you really weren’t born. Who knows, your mother might have coughed you up, or maybe you sprung Athena-like from your fathers head full grown. Or maybe you grew in reeds with your brethren safe in egg-sacks around you. Alien, who the hell knows what’s normal for you? That’s sorta the point. Maybe this whole sexy bald male thing is normal for you. Maybe an innate fondness for purple-clad whipcord and self deprecating humor is a species trait. When you can shoot fire from your eyes and hear a mouse squeak in the next county, who knows what’s normal for you. So your fathers well meaning speech and your mother’s conciliatory peach cobbler are good for nothing but filling the ear and stomach, soon gone leaving the empty pit of questions unanswered, and there’s no on to ask. Nobody like you.

You can look on the internet. Farmboy here has read the entire kama sutra. You’ve learned things, it all does nothing for you, and you’re even a greater weirdo than you thought, and you’re all alone. This, you see as the issue. Nobody else does ‘it’ for you. Of course, the ‘it’ bit is contentious. Your internet sources tell you about size and cum and different ways and places to insert things. You know it’s supposed to be erotic. You remember one conversation with your best friend, she’d gotten all red-faced, blushing almost as bad as you were, but she’d shared her porn collection. She’s now positive you’re gay, a straight girls best friend. She loves being a ‘fag hag’. It’s like her own personal crusade, gay rights and all that. That, and keeping track of the real weirdoes, meteor mutants. No, porn doesn’t get you there. Neither of the two girls you’ve dated did it either. At least one of them is still your best friend. Maybe that’s why she’s so sure you’re gay. Then there’s an explanation for why you didn’t work out.

The other girl works at the coffee shop you no longer visit. It was a hard habit to kick, but you’d always meant to and when it got too awkward to even order you’re staple Americano it was an excuse to give it up. Your dad still brews a strong morning pot, forgets and makes more than he needs. He’s surprised when it sits cooling to sludge in the pot when you don’t drink it. No, no girl or guy is like him. It’s frustrating, invigorating. When you can feel a shift in the air temperature simply because he entered the room, or pick up his hear beat out of a crowd at a metropolis gala. Of course, he never knows you’re there.

That’s another issue, while Chloe claims no straight man would wear so much purple or walk that sensually, you can’t be sure. Never enough evidence to feel safe. You’ll never make a move; just capitalize on your status as a clinger on, and dorky best friend. He has so few true friends; you feel your luck is good enough to not push it. So what if the mere smell of him across his glass desk from you, wrist flashing mesmerizing pulse points, the blue maze of blood encasing what must be magic to make you so sensitive to it’s every fluctuation, over the keyboard between you. It makes the muscles in your arms and upper back bunch and tremble. It’s an annoying tick, what kind of creature shows it’s arousal by rippling its back? Maybe it’s a mating show thing. You’ve learned from Chloe’s frankness and your father’s subtle hints that you are, in fact, built, and you’re not done growing. Maybe muscles are really important where you come from. So your body, without as much as a ‘by your leave’, turns into a jumpy circus. It’s worse than getting a boner -which has only happened twice, both times at the end of very detailed dreams- because it’s just plain weird, but has that similar feeling.

Maybe the muscles thing explained why you love it when he rolls up his sleeves to show forearms that bunch and relax as he stretches or the muscle paralysis you felt when you first saw him fencing. Your whole body went taunt, each muscle popping into stark relief like some steroid hyped cartoon superhero. The feeling was doubled when you walked in on him boxing in loose pants and a Princeton t-shirt. The sight of his biceps almost had you coming right there, at least it felt like that. You couldn’t move, burning in humiliation, only you weren’t hard. That particular organ seemed to be the last stop, not swayed just by brain scrambling visuals. You had truly been incoherent then.

You don’t know what he must think of you, big, bumbling, and naïve boy. Not slick or hard edges, no city shine or innate savvy. Not even a quick wit to keep up with him. When he laughs for you, it’s like winning the lottery because you know you’re not that funny. And no one else will do. You watched action shows and body builders and the football squad from under bleachers with Chloe. She’d giggled but you’d felt nothing. Nothing until Lex dropped by to talk to your mother about getting more artichokes, but that must have just been an excuse because you both wound up playing pool back at the mansion. Lex bent over the pool table to take his shot, coiled steady like a viper, lean muscle surging forward in the ceramic click of balls and the thwack of his score racking up in the leather pockets. You had only paid specific attention to the arms before, but now, now you know your life is over.

Your father will rage, your mother will purse her lips and ask you to shell peas and Lex will leave and never speak to you again. So you won’t say anything. But now you know it in your gut. That this is it. You won’t be making your move and so you forfeit because there’s only one for you, sight, sound and smell. You don’t know taste, but all your other sense scream ‘home’ to you. This is your nest, your safe haven, you roost. The stork dropped you off for this purpose. Sadly the shots are not lined up, never will be so you’ll pine. Mated for life, falcons do that, they fly fast and ripple their wing muscles in courting. You’d make a good falcon. To bad the other damn bird oblivious, wrong species, wrong gender for you parents, wrong age for the rest of the world. You hope you’ll like being miserable because you’re seriously considering that as the outcome of the rest of your life. Maybe you’ll pick falcons for your biology project. Lex could always help you with it. He did once ask, if you thought a man could fly.


End file.
